


pin and tumbler

by gdgdbaby



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She still has surgeon's hands, cool and steady. It couldn't hurt to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pin and tumbler

**Author's Note:**

> what they do in their off time, written for advent. originally posted at [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/99337.html).

"Teach me," Joan says, sliding into the chair next to his.

It's almost three in the morning, and they have another rehab meeting to get to in less than six hours. Sherlock, of course, knows this. He glances at the wall clock and turns back to his extensive collection of locks, picking through them with practiced ease. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

Joan fingers a heavy padlock, its shackle rusted over. "You must be aware that it's a little difficult to sleep with you rattling around down here all night." She crosses her legs and leans forward on her elbows. "Might as well put this time to good use."

"My staying up has never bothered you before," he notes. "Why the sudden interest?"

She studies the keyhole. When she puts it back down on the table, he snatches it up himself, makes quick work of it. "You said before that you thought I'd make a promising investigator. Was that just lip service?" He hazards another glance at her. A complicated jumble of intertwining chains comes undone in his hands. "Picking locks seems like a pretty important part of your skill set."

"So you want to learn."

"Yes."

It's almost three in the morning and he moves too fast. This is what she tells herself, at least, because before she can react at all he's got her right hand in a cuff, the other ring catching around the back of her chair and clicking shut, quick and decisive. "There are picks on the table. You can help yourself." He saunters away. "I'm going to sleep."

"Sherlock," she says dangerously. "Come back here and uncuff me."

"Learn by doing," he singsongs over his shoulder. "Or, if you don't care, you could always just carry the chair upstairs with you. A bit wooden for a bedmate, but it's workable, I think. Might be hard to explain at the meeting tomorrow, though. It's your choice. Good night!"

For a brief moment, she does consider just hauling the chair upstairs and trying to sleep—but that would be letting him win, wouldn't it? And yet staying here would also be playing right into his inane games.

Joan stares down at the smooth metal encircling her wrist, then back at the assorted spread of bobby pins and paper clips and chipped tools on the table. She still has surgeon's hands, cool and steady. It couldn't hurt to try.

The first two picks she attempts to force in aren't small enough to slide into the keyhole. She twists in the seat, sits cross-legged facing the slim, wooden bars of the back, and scowls. She manages to finagle the blunt end of a paper clip into it after several more false starts. When she turns it clockwise the cuffs tighten around her wrist. "Fuck," she says under her breath.

"You're doing better than I'd expected," comes Sherlock's voice two inches from her right ear, and she jumps so hard that she drops the paper clip on the floor. It skitters away across the wooden veneer.

"Thanks," she says drily.

Sherlock bends with a flourish and picks it back up for her. "Do continue."

It's difficult to work with Sherlock (who, as usual, has no concept of personal space) breathing down her neck, and even more so with the hand she doesn't favor. She finally slips the bent paper clip back in and turns it clockwise this time, watches as the locking teeth slowly slide out, levers of the mechanism disengaging.

"Oh, very good," Sherlock says, voice low with delight.

Joan frowns when the cuff is finally off her wrist. She stands fluidly and pokes him hard in the chest before he can react. He falls back and then rights himself again like a tilting doll, a smug expression on his face. "Never do that again," she snaps.

"Don't be like this, Ms. Watson," he cajoles. "You enjoyed it."

"Good night, Sherlock," she says, turning on her heel and shuffling to the stairs.

"We can start on deadbolts tomorrow, if you like," he calls cheerily, his hands already at work on another set of impossible locks.

" _Good night, Sherlock_ ," Joan repeats. She trudges up the stairs and to her room. By the time her head hits the pillow, she's out like a light.


End file.
